The Happiness Project: Or, Why I Spent a Year Trying to Sing in the Morning, Clean My Closets, Fight Right, Read Aristotle, and Generally Have More Fun

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    Some people associate happiness with a lack of intellectual rigor, like the man who said to Samuel Johnson, “You are a philosopher, Dr. Johnson. I have tried too in my time to be a philosopher; but, I don’t know how, cheerfulness was always breaking in.” Creativity, authenticity, or discernment, some folks argue, is incompatible with the bourgeois complacency of happiness. But although somber, pessimistic people might seem smarter, research shows that happiness and intelligence are essentially unrelated.
    Of course, it’s cooler not to be too happy. There’s a goofiness to happiness, an innocence, a readiness to be pleased. Zest and enthusiasm take energy, humility, and engagement; taking refuge in irony, exercising destructive criticism, or assuming an air of philosophical ennui is less taxing. Also, irony and world-weariness allow people a level of detachment from their choices: fast food, a country club membership, a gas-guzzling SUV,reality TV. I met someone who couldn’t stop talking about the stupidity of celebrities and people who read celebrity gossip, but her disdainful remarks revealed that she herself followed it very closely. I had to bite my tongue not to quote Samuel Johnson’s observation of Alexander Pope: “Pope’s scorn of the Great is too often repeated to be real; no man thinks much of that which he despises.” Ironic commentary was her strategy both to embrace and to disavow celebrity gossip.
    Other people cultivate unhappiness as a way to control others. They cling to unhappiness because without it they’d forgo the special consideration that unhappiness secures: the claim to pity and attention. I know I’ve pled unhappiness to get points for something. For example, if Jamie asks me to go to a business dinner with him and I honestly tell him, “I don’t want to go, I really don’t want to go, but I will if you want me to,” I feel as if I get more gold stars from him for going than if I fibbed, “I’m happy to go, I’m really looking forward to it.” If I didn’t complain, if I didn’t express my unhappiness, Jamie might take my complaisance for granted.
    Some people exploit unhappiness for decades. “My mother always made a big point that she’d sacrificed completing her Ph.D. program to stay home with me and my brother,” a friend told me. “She was frustrated and angry, and she brought it up all the time. She used her unhappiness to control us and my father. We all felt guilty.”
    The belief that unhappiness is selfless and happiness is selfish is misguided. It’s more selfless to act happy. It takes energy, generosity, and discipline to be unfailingly lighthearted, yet everyone takes the happy person for granted. No one is careful of his feelings or tries to keep his spirits high. He seems self-sufficient; he becomes a cushion for others. And because happiness seems unforced, that person usually gets no credit. Thérèse didn’t get credit, even from her fellow nuns, for her tremendous efforts. Because she seemed so happy, they assumed that her behavior was effortless. I know a fortunate few people—such as my father—who seem naturally sunny-tempered. Now I wonder how effortless this really is.
    There’s yet another group of people who have a superstitious dread of admitting to happiness, for fear of tempting fate. Apparently, this is practically a universal human instinct and seen in nearly all cultures—the dread of invoking cosmic anger by calling attention to good fortune. This feeling haunted me as I worked on my happiness project. By directing attention at my happiness, was I somehow putting it at risk?
    There’s the related superstition that if you anticipate trouble and tragedy, you’ll somehow forestall it. Fear and worry can be useful, because thinking about unpleasant consequences can prompt prudent actions, such as wearing a seat belt or exercising. But for many people, fear of what might happen is a source of great unhappiness—yet they feel there’s a propitiatory virtue in fretting. For example, on some level, I feel guilty about not worrying more about Jamie’s hepatitis C. I keep track of every piece of information we get, I go to many of Jamie’s appointments, I’ve learned a lot about hepatitis C. But when it isn’t an active issue in our lives, I don’t think much about it, and sometimes my detachment seems…irresponsible. Shouldn’t I be more concerned? But my worry won’t change the reality of Jamie’s liver. Whipping